


Spite

by allbam



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drunk Robert, F/M, Gen, Jealous Joffrey, R plus L equals J, is that something you even have to tag?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allbam/pseuds/allbam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned Stark wasn't alone when he found his newborn nephew in his dying sister's arms. Robert, nearly torn apart with his grief, makes a promise to his dying love not to kill her son simply for whom the father is.</p>
<p>Robert reluctantly sends Jon to be raised by Ned in the north, but extracts a promise from his friend: When Jon is of age, he must return to King's Landing and denounce his Throne and pledge his fealty to King Robert. In exchange, he may live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spite

There were two goblets on the table. There was only ever one before; the young boy wondered why there was an extra cup.

The air was warmer than he was used to, and while his clothes were a bit confining, there was no small part of Jon Snow that wanted to remove any article of clothing, not when it worked as a barrier of sorts.

Jon shifted uneasily in his chair as he waited as he always did each name day. The sounds of the camp surrounding the grand tent should have been enough to ease him somewhat; usually the thought of his family out there among the guards and knights of King's Landing was enough to settle him, but it wasn't working this time. It didn't even help a bit because this is the first year he has been told the complete truth of his parentage.

The man standing tall just outside of the tent was not his Lord father Eddard Stark, but his Uncle Ned. He was not a bastard of the man he looked up to most in the world, but the son of that man's sister, Lyanna Stark. The woman who was once promised to the current King, Robert Baratheon.

All too sudden, Jon understood the reason for his meetings with the King as each name day passed. All too soon, did Jon realize the implications of the questions that he has been asked each year since he turned five years old. He has always been afraid of the King, but now that he knew the reason for the gruff man's ire...

Just then the flap of the tent was torn away, revealing the towering form of King Robert.

Jon nearly threw himself to the ground in his bow, but before he could make it even a step away from his chair, the King snapped his fingers.

“Stay where you are, boy and don't move an inch unless you're given leave to.”

Jon shifted back into his seat and squirmed under the heavy gaze of the King as the retired warrior steadily approached the chair opposite of Jon's. The King's eyes locked on Jon's as he opened a flask and poured himself some wine. This stare Jon knew he would never grow used to, but one that he had come to expect each time his name day came to pass.

Jon's legs still couldn't quite reach the ground. It made him nervous. It would be harder for him to run if the need arose. Even with his father—Uncle Stark, his mind hastened to remind itself—standing just a few feet away outside of the tent, Jon knew that it wasn't enough. If the King chose to do away with Jon as his gaze always seemed to hint at each time they met, it wouldn't matter how many of his _Uncle_ 's men stood outside. He'd be dead.

The King's hand was steady in his pouring, and despite the fact that his gaze has yet to stray from Jon's face, not a drop of wine was spilled.

“How old are you now, boy?”

It was the same question the King asked Jon each name day.

And just as it had every time before, Jon's throat seemed to close in on itself and made the noise that escaped his mouth hardly seem like genuine words at all. “N-Nine, my King.”

“Nine years old.” The King repeated as he usually did. “Damn, Lyanna, has it already been nine years?” He shook his head slightly as if in disbelief before he snatched his goblet up and before he took his customary drink, he paused, his pale blue eyes sharp as they stared at Jon over the rim of the glass. “Do you not see the goblet before you, boy?” He spat. “Drink with me!”

Jon jumped, all at once terrified and curious. This was new. He sat forward and nearly spilled the contents out in his haste to bring the cup to his mouth. He waited for the King to tip his glass before he did so himself, and his mouth was immediately filled with the dark, bittersweet taste of wine that burned his tongue and warmed his belly as soon as he swallowed. His head reeled from the sensation it stirred at the back of his throat, even after swallowing and nearly missed the table as he sat the goblet back where he got it.

“Nine years... Tell me boy, what is your name?”

Jon ducked his head. “Jon Snow, my King.”

The heavy fist of the King came down on the table, nearly toppling over the flask and Jon's cup. “Look at me when I speak, boy! Need I remind you each time?”

The boy's head snapped up so fast, the muscles at the back of his neck screamed, but he ignored it with the barest hint of a wince as he met the blazing eyes of the King. “Jon Snow, my King.” He repeated.

“Jon Snow... Yes. Snow is correct.” The King took another gulp of the wine, this time without encouraging Jon to do the same. “Snow is what you shall be known as from now until the day you die. You may be Lyanna's but you are no Stark of Winterfell.” He set his goblet down on the carpeted ground of the tent before shoving the table aside, ignoring the clattering of the contents it held and Jon's Uncle Ned inquiring voice from outside. The King ignored it all as he reached out, grasping the arm rest of the smaller chair and dragging Jon to him, chair and all in one swift moment. “And if anyone so much as even whispers the Targaryen name in relation to you boy... Well, you'll just have to see for yourself, won't you?”

There was the stomping of steps and before Jon knew it, he was being pulled out of his chair by his Uncle Ned and was quickly handed over to the waiting hands of the young Jory, who then escorted Jon out of the tent as soon as his Uncle Ned's voice began to raise.

Jon bit his lips but didn't cry. It wouldn't help him now or ever. Not now that he knew the reasons for his yearly meetings with the King. He was the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. He was the son of the woman the King loved most and the son of his most hated enemy.

Crying wouldn't help him in the least.

He'd still have to meet with the King on his next name day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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